


The Wrong Road

by JantoJones



Series: UNCLE Holidays [7]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 11:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16428110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoJones/pseuds/JantoJones
Summary: Napoleon and Illya find themselves on the wrong road on a misty Hallowe'en.





	The Wrong Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrua7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/gifts).



> Written for mrua7 for the 2018 Live Journal MFU Scrapbook Hallowe'en challenge.

“How did you survive this long as an agent, let alone become CEA, with such a dire sense of direction?!”

Illya Kuryakin was not a happy man and he let his displeasure be known. He and Napoleon were heading back to headquarters following the successful conclusion of their latest mission and, for once, the American had opted to drive. This afforded Illya the opportunity to doze off and dream of the food at the Hallowe’en party being held in the commissary. The anticipation of the party was the only thing which seemed to holding yet another headache at bay. 

Although their mission had ended with on a positive, both agents had still managed to get themselves injected with another Thrush drug. Neither had any idea what the bluish liquid had been as they had managed to escape before it was explained to them. Napoleon suggested they visit medical upon their return, which Illya had immediately taken against. He decided, instead, just to monitor any symptoms which may arise, and only head to medical in a dire emergency. It always seemed, however, that no matter what the nature of the substance used, Illya always managed to have an adverse reaction to it.

When they had set off for home, Napoleon had figured it would take just over two hours to get there. This would give them time to give their verbal report to Waverly, and to shower and change before the party started. That had been four hours ago.

Illya had been half asleep for a good deal of that time, but had been brought to full wakefulness when the car stopped, and Napoleon began to root around for a road map. For half an hour the two agents had tried to figure out where they were, and just where Solo had taken the wrong road, with Illya becoming more irritable as each minute passed. It didn’t help his mood that night was falling and a mist was beginning to settle around them, causing him to feel oddly unnerved.

Napoleon didn’t answer his partner’s question, knowing it was probably rhetorical. He also ignored his ill-temper. Illya was tired, hungry, and had Thrush chemicals playing merry hell with his system. Of course, Solo had the same chemicals in his blood, but he never suffered as much as Illya. Napoleon could understand the man’s annoyance, but what he couldn’t understand was just how he himself had gotten so lost. He was also unable to explain how so much time had passed. It certainly hadn’t felt as though hours had gone by.

“There are lights ahead of us,” said Illya, pointing towards the pale orange glows which seemed to be about a mile away. “Hopefully, there will be someone there who can give us our bearings. You know I could be missing out on the chocolate cake Marsha always brings.”

“Don’t worry, Mr Crotchety, I’m sure we’ll get back in time to satisfy your chocolate addiction. Besides, I have no doubt she will save you a piece, in the hopes of finally getting a date.”

They drove in silence, with Illya sitting resolutely with his arms folded, until they reached the source of the lights, where they discovered something they hadn’t been expecting. Instead of the small town they’d imagined, they found themselves in something which resembled the set of a horror movie.

There were about a dozen derelict and decrepit wooden buildings clustered around a small central square. Given the number of leafless branches poking through the gaps in walls and roofs, nature had seemingly had a long time to regain what had once belonged to her. From some of the windows, the orange lights Illya had seen earlier, shone out through the murky gloom. At the centre of the open space stood a set of gallows, which had an eerily fresh-looking noose hanging from it. Just to add to the spooky scene, a large crow was sitting on the gallows, watching them beadily.

“Surely no one lives here,” said Napoleon, as he got out of the car. “It looks like a ghost town.”

“There must be someone here,” Illya reasoned, trying not to give life to the fear which was building in his heart. “Where would the light come from otherwise?”

“Well, we won’t find out by standing here.”

The agents decided to head for the largest building, which looked as though it could have been the hub of the town at one time. As they passed the gallows, the crow let out a loud ‘caw!’, and swooped down at Illya. Instinctively, he punched the bird out of the air, and it landed in front of him, dazed. 

“Was that necessary, Tovarisch?” Solo asked, slightly perplexed by his partner’s reaction.

Illya didn’t reply, as the punch had surprised him also. He didn’t want to admit it, and he tried to put it down to being annoyed with Napoleon, but the place had him seriously spooked. This in itself just made him even more annoyed. Throughout his life, Illya had been witness to a lot of very real horror. He had seen, and been caught up in, things which were truly terrifying. So, to feel fear at imagined horrors was just ridiculous.

Pushing open the door of the building, Napoleon and Illya found themselves in an old-style tavern. Gas lanterns bathed the wooden interior with a warm, flickering light. A bar stretched the entire length of one wall, while the rest of the space was dotted with tables and chairs. On every available surface there were glasses and bottles in varying degrees of emptiness. What was missing, however, were the drinkers.

“It’s like the Marie Celeste,” Napoleon commented, referencing the sailing ship which had been discovered deserted and adrift in the 1870s.

Without even realising he was doing it, Illya drew his weapon. Napoleon’s eyebrow raised up in question, and it was joined by the other when he noticed how tightly his partner was gripping the gun.

“Are you frightened?” he asked, with genuine concern.

“I do not feel wanted here,” the Russian replied, then frowned at his own words.

He hadn’t meant to let Napoleon know of his fears, but the words had come out without any real conscious thought. However, what he had said was the absolute truth. The atmosphere reminded him of his early days at U.N.C.L.E. New York, when he had been about as welcome as fox in a henhouse.

“Really?” Solo queried. “I’m getting a sense of friendly welcome.”

It reminded him of the many parties he’d attended when in college. Napoleon had been popular with the ladies even back then, and his presence at a gathering was always welcome. Even the male party goers had enjoyed his conviviality. As there was no sign of anyone around them, neither man could explain why they we experiencing such strong feelings.

Moving farther into the tavern, Illya was startled by a sudden burst of noise. It sounded like many voices, all telling him to leave. It lasted for around two seconds, and seemed to be completely surrounding him. He swung his gun around wildly, looking nothing like the cool, professional agent that he was.

“Hey, calm down,” Napoleon warned, placing a settling hand on Illya’s arm. “What’s going on with you?”

“You did not hear that?” The other man asked desperately. He lowered the gun, but didn’t re-holster it.

“I heard nothing,”

Napoleon was worried. Illya was a pragmatic man, who certainly didn’t take fright easily. His current behaviour was so far out of the norm that Napoleon was even wondering if his partner had been replaced by a doppelgänger. He hoped it was nothing more than a side effect of the drug they had been given.

“There were voices,” Illya told him, with a slightly hysterical edge to his tone. “You must have heard them.”

Napoleon could hear the unspoken plea in Illya’s voice. It was as though he needed for his ‘hallucination’ to be real.

“There’s no-one here,” Solo said gently, gesturing at the empty room.

He would have been more convinced of that himself if, at that moment, he hadn’t heard a female voice whispering into his left ear.

“Make him go,” she said, with a tone which sent shivers of pleasure down Napoleon’s spine. He could almost feel her breath against the sensitive skin of his ear, and it caused his head to twitch.

“You heard something!” Illya snapped, bringing his gun back up. “Were they telling you to go?”

“Erm, no,” Napoleon replied, confused. “She was telling me to send you away.”

“We should leave, Napoleon. I do not like it here.”

Before Solo could agree, Illya was suddenly lifted into the air by an unseen force, and savagely thrown against the wall. His gun was violently ripped from his hand and flung across the empty bar room. Napoleon instantly stepped towards his dazed partner, but found himself being held back by invisible hands.

“ILLYA!”

The Russian shook his head in an attempt to clear it but, if anything, it only seemed to make things worse. From out of the ether faint human shapes began to form in front of him, which quickly solidified into real people. They were dressed like the characters from all the Western movies Napoleon had encouraged him to watch. The thing which really struck Illya was that, although there were a few men, most of the people were women.

“This one is no good,” one of the male figures stated, pointing at Illya. “He is not of this land.”

“What do you mean?” Napoleon demanded, as he struggled to free himself from the four men holding him.

“A foreigner is useless for our needs,” replied a woman, whose voice he recognised from earlier. “We need a man born in this land to return us to life.”

“Return you to life?” Solo echoed. “I don’t understand.”

The woman with the sultry voice stepped in front of him and stroked his left cheek. Her hand then slid down his neck, and continued down his torso.

“You are perfect,” she breathed, reaching his genitals. “You will be the husband of all the women, and the father of every child.”

“Things aren’t feeling so friendly now,” Napoleon commented drily.

“I thought having your choice of women would be a dream,” Illya replied, as he struggled against the people holding him down. They were far stronger than ‘normal’ humans.

“SILENCE!” the woman roared. The volume and pitch of her voice caused several of the drinking glasses to shatter.

“We need to be rid of this one,” said one of the men holding Illya. “The other will be more compliant when this one is dead.”

“That’s what you think,” Napoleon snarled defiantly.

“Tie him and take him outside,” the woman instructed.

Rope was produced from somewhere and Illya’s hands were bound behind his back. His ankles were also tied together, making it almost impossible to kick out at his attackers. He cursed them in his native language, and promised retribution should he get free. Not that he knew how he would achieve that. Illya was at a complete loss to explain what was happening, but was absolutely certain that the people of this town weren’t natural.

He was dragged out into the square, with Napoleon being forced along after them. Both agents realised with horror what was about to happen as the group headed for the gallows.

“NAPOLEON!” Illya cried out, as he was lifted up for the noose to be slipped over his head.

Solo was fighting like a demon against the many hands which held him and, upon hearing the sheer terror in his partner’s cry, he somehow drew a superhuman strength from within him. He broke free at the same moment Illya’s captors let go of him. With their task completed, they melted away back into nothingness. Mercifully, if that was a word which could be used in this situation, Illya wasn’t dropped far, so instead of his neck breaking, he was left to choke.

Sprinting the short distance to the gallows, Napoleon wrapped his arms around Illya and braced him over his shoulder, taking the strain from the rope. Swiftly, though with some difficulty he reached for the knife he knew Illya often had strapped to his calf. Overjoyed to find it in situ, he unsheathed it and cut the noose form the gallows. He wasted no time in laying his friend down and removing all the rope from him; starting with the noose which was still limiting his air supply.

“Who are they?” the Russian asked, his voice hoarse from his near strangulation.

“I wish I knew,” Solo replied, watching the townspeople warily.

Without warning, and with screams which seemed to come from the bowels of the Earth, the people rushed towards the two men and enveloped them.

..................................................................................................................

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin looked around in confusion. They were sitting in their vehicle and it was daylight. They both recognised the road they were on as being about an hour from home. Each looked to the other for an answer they weren’t sure they really wanted.

“A shared hallucination?” Napoleon suggested tentatively.

“I can think of no other explanation” Illya answered, noting that his voice now sounded normal. “I can only assume it was brought on by whatever was in that Thrush drug.”

Solo glanced at his watch.

“There’s still plenty of time to make it to the party,” he said, trying to dispel the horror he had just endured.

In truth, he no longer felt like celebrating. He had a lot to process, even though the events he remembered probably hadn’t actually happened.

“I am no longer in the mood for jollity,” Illya replied. “I would prefer to just go home. I feel sure Mr Waverly can wait until tomorrow for our reports.”

“How about we pick up some food on the way and we go to my place,” Solo suggested.

Illya readily agreed and, just over an hour later, they arrived at Napoleon’s apartment, weighed down with both Chinese and Russian food. They had also stocked up on whiskey and vodka, knowing that it was going to be night for drinking. After depositing his bags on the kitchen table, Illya excused himself to the bathroom.

The feeling of having the noose around his neck had felt far too real to be an hallucination. Illya had tried to convince himself that it was the result of the insidious drugs, but the memory of it was too solid. Looking into the mirror, he raised his chin up to examine his neck.

It would be easy to miss if he hadn’t been looking for it, but the faint red mark which circled his throat was very definitely there.


End file.
